


Vengeance, Says the Lord

by sock_bealady



Category: Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Dark, Dubious Consent, Hate Sex, Jack's POV, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Power Play, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 04:25:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9367832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sock_bealady/pseuds/sock_bealady
Summary: After their unexpected meeting in France, Jamie and Black Jack spiral into mutual obsession.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the warnings. This fic will also contain references to Claire/Jamie and eventual (non-graphic) mentions of Jack/Fergus. Tags will be updated with each chapter. I expect 3 or 4 chapters total.

Leaning carefully over the basin, so as not to drip on the inn's gleaming floorboards, Jack Randall splashed water over his face. The heels of his hands rubbed deep over his eyes, trying to dislodge more than just dirt. Despite his best efforts, when he straightened a few cold tendrils trickled down his neck and over his bare chest. His shirt, soiled by the grime of the Bastille to the point of being unwearable, already hung over a hook in the corner, waiting to be laundered. He took up the razor. It had been only two days since he'd last shaved, but it felt like much longer. He ran the edge over his skin, marveling at how it could make him feel so much cleaner while removing naught but a few traces of his own hair.

The razor caught on the slight ridge of an old scar, as it had a hundred times before. He lifted a hand and pressed hard against it. After a moment, he released the pressure and stared down at his fingers, decorated by a small smear of red. Flowing blood. Nature's surest sign that one was still alive. If he touched it to his lips, he wondered, would it taste like . . . ?

He splashed his hands back in the basin and returned to the razor, suddenly anxious to have the chore finished. Once his cheeks were bare of stubble, he took up the fine ivory comb and went to work tugging the snarls out of his hair. He had to wet the comb with oil several times, but eventually he managed it. Only when every strand lay flat and gleaming against his shoulders did he pull them back and secure the whole endeavor with a ribbon at the base of his neck.

A knock at the door made him jump and then scold himself for reacting so. Giving the door a wary look, he pulled a clean shirt from the armoire, buttoned it up the front, and followed it with a serviceable brown coat. His breeches were still smudged with filth and technically ought not be worn without his uniform coat, but they would serve. He picked up the loaded pistol that rested on the small table and rolled his wrist back and forth. Holding it loosely in his right hand, he eased the door open.

Even though he'd half expected it, the sight of Jamie Fraser on his doorstep still knocked him momentarily breathless. He made sure that his face did not show it, canting his head to one side and letting his eyes rake up and down the Scot. He still wasn't sure what miracle or, more likely, act of witchcraft had kept Fraser alive, but he meant to enjoy the sight. Jamie was not dressed after French custom but in his striking plaid. Through the crisp white shirt, Jack could see the lines of his body, neither softened by comfort nor wasted by suffering. His face was disciplined to an expressionless mask that still held a touch of danger in the set of the jaw line. Altogether, he looked exactly as he had at that unexpected meeting at the Duke of Sandringham's house. Save for one detail.

"My god," Jack said with a touch of irony, "What have you done to your hair?"

Jamie smiled, the sort of thin-lipped smile that one gives only to prove that one can. His face remained level. He blinked once, a gesture that certainly wasn't meant to be alluring and became so only because of the remarkable shape of those eyes.

Through the long night at the Bastille, Jack had run over this change of fortune in his mind, with all its accompanying dangers. He'd worked out a thousand plans to protect himself from Fraser's inevitable wrath. None of them included what he did next.

He swung the door a little wider and waved him courteously inside. Fraser stepped in, his face giving nothing away even when Jack closed the door behind him with a _click._ "How did you find me?" Jack asked while the other man took in the comfortable room with a critical gaze.

Jamie glanced at him, then away as if he were of no consequence. "Sandringham told me where ye might be found."

"Ah, yes, the Duke of Sandringham," Jack leaned against the wall by the door, affecting a casual demeanor, "I'd forgotten he knows you, though perhaps not as well as he'd like. Tell me, would you like to know what he would give just for a story about you?"

At this, Jamie's face twitched a little, but his voice stayed perfectly controlled. "Don't much care what he thinks about me." He was still sensitive, then, about people knowing, and probably anxious that the Duke might. Jack filed this away for future reference. Jamie's eyes flicked down to Jack's hand. "Ye nervous about something, Randall?"

Jack glanced at the pistol as if he'd forgotten it. "Should I be?" he asked pleasantly.

Jamie's eyebrows lifted slightly and he gave a small shrug. "Doubtless, a man such as yourself has plenty of enemies."

"Fewer than you might think." Privately marveling at his near-suicidal daring, Jack set the gun down on the table and walked across the room to the sideboard. "Will you drink?"

"Aye." 

There was a decanter of whiskey on the tabletop, but Randall reached below, fishing out a bottle of brandy and filling two tumblers. Jamie took his with his bare left hand, pretending not to care when Jack's fingers brushed his. Jack stared at that hand for long moments, remembering the power of it as it had wrapped around his throat. 

"The Bastille is everything it's rumored to be," he said in a conversational tone, "Though there's only so much one can experience in a single night's stay. I must say, as revenge plots go, this one was rather weak. I expected more from you."

Jamie drank deeply, clearly pretending that the taste did not affect him--did not raise specters in his mind. "Revenge wasn't the goal," he said, "And besides, it was not my idea. My lady wife seemed to think it was the best way to keep you safe from me."

"And why should 'your lady wife' wish to protect the likes of me?" Jack probed.

"She doesn't, I expect," Fraser said inscrutably.

Jack wasn't quite sure how to respond to that. He felt himself tilting off balance. It had been so since that moment in the corridor when he'd realized neither of them were dead. He knew where this was headed--where it _had_ been headed since the moment he'd lifted his sword to a teenaged Fraser's back, but he would do anything to delay the inevitable just a little bit longer. "Tell me something," he said softly, "How is it that you survived?" Fraser's eyes lifted and Jack hoped it was at the bluntness of the question rather than the veiled reverence in his voice. He sipped his brandy and gave Jamie a serious look. "I know what I did and what it should have meant. Half of it I never would have done had you not be due to hang in the morning. It . . . tortured me, for a time. The thought that you must have died like that. Alone and in agony."

"I wasn't alone, though," Jamie said, narrowing his eyes, "Not half as alone as I was in that room for all those hours." He paused, then reached for his right hand and tugged the glove off. He lifted it, showing Jack several gnarled scars, including one on his longest finger. Jack remembered the sight of exposed bone, the pulpy swelling of shattered joints, the full certainty that such a hand could never be lifted against him again. Fraser studied it a moment, as if seeing his own scars for the first time. "She forced the bone back into the skin. Who'd have thought those slim little hands of hers would have so much strength? Stitched the wounds closed with sewing thread and waited for it to mend. The wound went bad and I thought for sure I would die. She didn't let me." His eyes dropped and his lips curled fondly. "She didn't let me," he said again, as if to remind himself.

He seemed to shake himself and the softness disappeared in a glare at Jack. "And what is it to you, Randall? 'Tortured,' ye say? From what I recall, you seemed quite pleased with imagining my death."

Jack made himself smile. "A clean death is one thing, my lord Broch Tuarach." He held back the mockery that he could have infused into the title. It was better to let Jamie have this small concession in hopes of putting him off his guard. "But to sicken and suffer as a result of our time together . . . I never wanted that for you. I would have killed you myself to spare you that." He kept his tone gentle, not sure whether he was trying to provoke Fraser or draw him out. Beneath the stoic mask, Jamie roiled with conflict. It had been like that then, too, though on their last night together he had been less defiant and more fatalistic. 

"I like it," Jack said suddenly, "The hair. It makes you look Roman." The words were more lie than nearly anything Jack had ever said to him. His mental image of Jamie had always emphasized the untamed wildness of him--a Scottish barbarian in ragged plaid with uncut locks, the furthest thing from the staid engravings of Caesar and Marcus Aurelius. The incongruity of the closely cropped hair was made all the more apparent by the angry flush working its way up his neck.

It was mostly fantasy, Jack knew--this image that he had of him. It allowed Jack to entertain the thought that he could break him with no more than the judicious application of enough force, but the reality was more complicated. Jamie was, in fact, very disciplined, but beneath that iron will lay a mess of competing needs. Jack knew that he could be magnificent, but only if properly handled. His desire for comfort and his desire for pleasure and his desire to fight all had to be balanced.

"The hair gets in my eyes." He spoke with cold deliberation. "The last time I dueled, the wind caught it loose. I nearly died." A smile twisted his mouth, and this time there was nothing fond about it. "I didn't want anything to get in the way of my killing you."

It was one thing to half-expect those words, another to hear them. An icy trickle of fear collected in Jack's gut at the exact same moment that tingling warmth bloomed in his loins. He paused a moment, enjoying the exquisite contrast. He might as well; there was a good chance he wouldn't be enjoying anything ever again. "Is that why you've come, then?" he asked, "To offer challenge? I wouldn't have thought yours the sort of grievance you'd wish to air in public."

Jamie's face twisted, and Jack wanted more than anything to be able to place a hand over his breast and feel the effect he was having on his heartbeat. "Well, my honor won't allow me to murder a man," he said softly, "Even one like you."

Jack took one last, lingering sip, then set his glass aside. "Not sure what you're waiting for, then, _my lord._ Unless it's the quality of the brandy."

Jamie's eyes bored into Jack's, and Jack remembered how even in the grip of pain and shame and fear, he'd never avoided looking at Jack--never gave him the satisfaction of a bowed head. "I meant to challenge you," Fraser said steadily, "And kill you on the morrow and have done with it. But."

Jack cocked his head a little. "But?"

Jamie took another swallow. "But, I love my wife more than I hate you." These words were spoken in the tone of a mortal insult, and despite himself, Jack felt the cut of them. He kept it from his face, waiting for Jamie to go on. "The lady fears for me. I suppose it's the natural way for a woman with child to want to defend the bairn's father. When she learned I'd risk arrest and worse to see you dead, she took matters into her own hands. Had ye locked in the Bastille to keep you away from me. Gave me the scolding of my life for considering it. So, yes Randall, I _will_ kill you. Just not now. And not in France."

Jack breathed out slowly. It was the sort of thing Claire Beauchamp would do. Perhaps he should thank her, though he meant to go on hating her on principle. "Why are you here, then? If not to challenge me or kill me or sample the brandy? Could it be you want to reminisce on old times?"

"Never," Fraser snapped, "I told the lass I'd not duel with ye. My conscience doesna allow me to kill ye outside of a fair challenge." He finished his drink in one long swallow. "Doesna mean I can't hurt ye in other ways."

He threw the glass with vicious precision. Jack barely managed to duck his head aside in time and it shattered against the wall behind him, showering him with glass splinters and residual drops of liquor. One of the larger fragments caught him at the base of his neck, and the resulting trickle was not from alcohol. He lifted his hand, rubbed hard at the wound, then stared at his fingers. Still alive. Smiling a little, he removed his coat and turned to hang it on the hook beside his soiled shirt. "So, that's how it's going to be, then?"

Jamie gave an answering smile. "Aye." He turned, demonstrating unsubtly that he wasn't afraid to turn his back. Just behind where he stood now was the table where Jack had foolhardily left his pistol. Fraser bore no sword, but he unsheathed his dirk and laid it on the same table. Next, he pulled a small knife from his stocking and set that aside as well. When he turned back, his eyes were flint: cool, hard, and ready to strike fire.

Not being the sort to cede the advantage, Jack had used the moment to step close on stealthy feet. As soon as Jamie turned back, he snapped out a hard punch to the nose, rocking the Scot back. "Still lying to yourself, I see." He pressed his advantage, but Fraser turned aside the knee aimed at his gut and laid him out with a crashing fist against his jaw.

"Never!"

Jack shook off the ringing dizziness and advanced with a flurry of blows. Fraser dodged the first and blocked the second, but the third caught him squarely in the gut, doubling him over. "This isn't about your broken hand and it isn't about your wife!" He trapped that hand in his and twisted, finding the fingers oddly brittle. "I made you feel things, _Lord Broch Tuarach!_ Things you'd like to forget but can't."

Instead of pulling back from his grip as Jack had expected, Jamie half-turned and slammed his shoulder into Jack, throwing them both to the ground. "Aye," he snarled, his face very close to Jack's, "You've made me into a beast nearly as foul as you. Does that frighten ye, _Captain Randall_? It should."

Fraser's plaid was secured at the shoulder by a long silver pin. Jack deftly ripped it from the fabric and drove the point into the flesh of Jamie's shoulder. The man howled and slammed Jack's arm to the floor with a bruising grip on his wrist. Yanking the pin from his skin with his other hand, he drove it, with unerring accuracy, through Jack's palm and into the wooden floorboards below. Knives of pain stabbed down Jack's arm, and for a moment his vision threatened to white out. He stared at his hand as pain faded to the horror of being pinned like a bug in some naturalist's collection. But, before that could really sink in, he thought of Jamie's blood mixing with his own along the silvery shaft . . .

He wrenched his hand up, not bothering to stifle a cry of pain, and hit Fraser hard just at the base of his ribcage. The Scot's breath left him in a soft _oof,_ and Jack applied leverage, managing to flip them so that he was kneeling over Jamie instead. "There was no need for such dramatics," he whispered breathlessly, "If you wanted more, you needed only to ask!" He slid his bleeding hand under Jamie's knee and pinched hard at the tendons there until the man gasped and allowed Jack to push his leg outward. With his other hand, he reached for his head, realizing only belatedly that he was grasping for hair that was no longer there.

Jamie's head butt caught him in the mouth, splitting his lip. The larger man's hand shot up at Jack's neck and he was so preoccupied with protecting himself from choking that he forgot to fear the fingers that tangled in his hair instead. The next yank was vicious, wrenching out tufts of hair by the root and dragging Jack's head down and away. Before he could quite process it, Fraser had thrown him to the floor, twisted his arm up his back, and swung a leg over him, easy as mounting a horse. "Ye've no idea, do ye?" the man snarled in his ear, "What it is you do? It's all just a lark to ye, isn't it?" He slammed down hard, bouncing Jack's forehead off the wooden planks so that his ears rang.

"Why don't you show me, then?" he gasped, mostly for something to say.

Fraser froze for a moment, a trembling mountain of muscle at Jack's back. "Aye," he said at last, "Someone ought to."

Jack had no time to swallow his pride and retract the hasty words before a large hand seized his shirt at the collar and yanked down, hard enough to rip the shirt along its seams. Before Jack could do more than gasp, Fraser's mouth dropped to his shoulder. Or, more accurately, his teeth. He sank a bite into Jack's flesh, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a bruise that throbbed in time with his pulse. Jack threw an elbow up, but Jamie caught it easily and forced him down on his face. Large hands tore down his breeches and the cold air against his skin was a surreal shock. This was actually happening.

"Don't be ridiculous," he snapped, trying to keep his voice dismissive, or at least steady, "We both know you haven't got the balls for something like that."

"Ye'll find that I do," Fraser said calmly, but when Jack reached back to test that, the man trapped both his wrists and pinned them halfway up his back with one enormous paw. With his other hand, he was still struggling with Jack's breeches, eventually managing to get them down around his ankles like hobbles. 

Jack hadn't been this completely helpless in a very long time, and though it wasn't his usual predilection, he'd forgotten what a rush it could be in the right circumstances. This was Jamie Fraser, though, and if Jack ever wanted to master him again, he couldn't afford to cede power to him. He turned his head and gave him a smile edged with mockery. "There's more beast in you than we first suspected, then?" Jamie glared back in a cold fury, but he didn't respond or punish Jack for speaking. "What, you love your wife too much to kill me but not too much to fornicate with me? What _will_ she think of that, I wonder?"

"This isna about her," Jamie snarled, yanking on Jack's hair until he was forced to break his gaze, "It's about you and me." There was a long, trembling pause. "Don't much relish the thought," Jamie said at last in a reluctant, confessional tone, "But something has to be done about you, and if I can't kill ye, perhaps I can at least quash your appetite."

"Do go on," Jack hissed, "I love the way your voice shakes when you're lying to yourself." 

Jamie responded with a wordless growl and a tightening of his grip. They'd ended up just a few feet from the dressing table, with its basin and ivory comb. Fraser cast about for a moment before settling on the small bottle of oil Jack had been using for his hair. The Scot hadn't planned this, then, or at least he hadn't come prepared. Jack filed these details away. It gave him something to focus on besides fear. 

Jamie had to release his wrists to unstopper the bottle, and Jack took the opportunity to twist, his fingers clawing for Jamie's face but catching only the edge of his neck before he was forced back down. "Be still," Jamie said as stray droplets of oil sprayed across them both, "Don't make this any harder on yourself." Another splash of oil--intentional this time--and then there was a large finger in an intimate place, forcing itself into Jack with no further fanfare. There wasn't an inch of Jamie that wasn't proportional to the rest of him, and for a moment it felt like being stabbed.

"Not so fond of your own tactics, I see," Jamie said. The guilt was gone and his voice dripped with mockery. "What's the matter, Randall, never been on the receiving end?" He had, actually, though not for some time and always by his own choice. Jamie wasn't giving him any alternative, though, but to take it. The larger man had both knees wedged between Jack's own, forcing his legs out at awkward angles. His hands were free, but Jamie was leaning what seemed like half his weight on the scarred hand resting on Jack's back--it was almost hard to breathe.

It was clear that Jamie had only the vaguest idea of what he was doing. Most likely, Jack himself was the only model he had to copy, and he wasn't especially interested in Jack's pleasure. Still, he wasn't cruel enough to want to deal a true injury. He did a serviceable job of stretching, using plenty of oil and adding a second finger after a minute or so. It wasn't enough time, and Jack couldn't quite hold back a gasp. He expected that only to feed Jamie's vindictive anger, but not for the first time the man surprised him. The hand that was pinning him softened and the one that was in him stilled. "Relax," Jamie said softly, his voice stretched taut with desire and guilt and self-loathing, "Make it easy on yourself." 

The words set off a series of sparks in Jack that melded and grew like tinder catching flame. The competing forces of arousal and fear tangled together, forming a new whole that wasn't either but was greater than both. Sex, for him, had always been about that perfect series of contrasts: sharp and soft, hot and cold, pain and pleasure, desire and terror. And now, here he was. Physically, he was helpless--completely within Fraser's power to do with as he wished. And yet, it was he who had drawn Jamie here and driven him to this extent. He had never had more power over him. Jamie would remember this night forever, just as he would remember their first night together . . .

Buoyed by these thoughts, Jack sank into the currents of this new reality. He was only distantly aware of Jamie clumsily stretching him. He came back to himself a little only when the other man adjusted his weight and breathed out a slow breath and his hand slipped out of Jack. Readying himself. He would never do this, of course, unless he thought he was teaching Jack some lesson. If he knew how it was making Jack feel, he would surely stop.

"Jamie," Jack made his voice very small, "You don't want to do this."

The man paused, then a trace of anger slipped back into his voice. "You've driven me to a lot of things I didn't want to do. And I told you not to call me by that name."

"I thought you wanted me to beg," Jack said, "For mercy. For my life."

"I've already told you I'm not going to kill ye. Though ye might wish I had." With both hands gripping Jack's hips, his cock slid home.

Jack screamed because it was expected and because he _had_ to. Jamie had oiled himself, but he was larger than any man he'd ever been with, even in those experimental days when he was a young man.

Jack knew that Jamie's tastes were more . . . prosaic than his own. He wasn't immune to the allure of causing pain--as the current situation illustrated--but he did not enjoy more than minor suffering. Not at all like Jack, who often had to restrain his inner darkness to keep from causing fatal injury. Knowing the pain he was causing, Jamie simply held still for long moments, not speaking but making soft shushing sounds that could almost be involuntary until Jack relaxed against the intrusion and the pain started to ease.

When he did start to move, it was tentative at first, like he wasn't sure what to do with Jack now that he had him. For Jack, it did not take long for the physical discomfort to fade, overwhelmed by the delicious reality of the situation. This was not to his usual tastes--there was a reason he had stopped experimenting all those years ago--but this was James Fraser, so he would take what he could get. 

Each successive thrust seemed to remind Jamie of his anger a bit more. His fingers tightened, nearly raising bruises, and the snap of his hips came quicker and more violent. "You like to break people," he growled in Jack's ear, "I suspect it's not quite so sweet when you're the one being broken. Is it?"

"Go to hell," Jack growled.

"You first." He drew all the way back, then slammed in enough to bring the pain back, in spite of everything. "Beg," he whispered, "Beg like you made _me_ beg."

"No," Jack turned the word into a hiss, "You lost your chance _Lord Broch Tuarach._ "

Jamie dragged him to his knees, seeking a better angle. As he did so, his hand brushed against Jack's member and his secret was revealed. Jamie snarled and shoved him down so hard his head glanced against the floor boards again. "Sick bastard! You're enjoying this."

Jack licked a trace of blood from his lips and turned his head to give Jamie a sharp-edged smile. "So what if I am? _You_ enjoyed this. Many times, as I recall."

"That was different!" Jamie's large hand gripped his cock tight, though he never stopped moving within him. "You made me! But now . . . rising without a hand on you, ye twisted fuck. Guess any pain will do? Even yours?"

"And for you, any _touch_ will do. Even mine."

This had the desired effect of pushing Jamie to a flurry of animal rage. His hips pistoned brutally while his hand stayed where it was. For a moment, Jack was afraid he would try to squeeze it off, but then his grip loosened. "Be it on your head, then," he said while his thrusts and his hand created the sweetest form of friction, "Let your own sins condemn you."

"As if they were mine alone!" Jamie thrust in him a few more times, then came with an incoherent cry of lust and rage. While his attention was otherwise diverted, Jack brought his hand to his own cock and finished himself off in a few quick strokes, his eyes closed, his mind lingering over the indelible image of Jamie's face when he came against his will.

In the ringing silence afterwards, Jamie pulled out, pushed away, and stood. Jack's first sign that they had gone too far was the tremble in the man's hand as he pushed himself off of Jack's back. He turned to find Jamie wobbling a little on his feet. Though the plaid had fallen from his shoulder, he was still fully dressed. His face was very white, though, and his expression was stricken. Jack recognized the sight of Jamie a hairsbreadth from breaking, and he hurried to pull up his breeches.

The Scot turned away from him and stumbled towards the chamberpot in the corner. He dropped to his knees like a felled tree and was immediately sick. Something tightened in Jack's chest. He'd forgotten how very easy it was to hurt Jamie Fraser.

He stood and came up behind him on quiet feet. "Shhh . . ." He dropped a hand to brush over the shorn hair and come to rest on his back. Jamie twisted away from him, but he was clearly in no condition to stand. He made a familiar, distressed noise. "Hush. Hush, it's alright." Jack knelt and wrapped his arms around him, but Jamie shook his head and tried to push away. "No. No, Jamie, let me. Who else is going to do this for you?" At length, the struggles ceased and the younger man let Jack pull him into an embrace. "Who else could you possibly tell?"

Jamie's face was pressed into his bare shoulder and Jack could feel hot tears on his skin. After a moment, Jamie let out a wordless, half-stifled scream of anger and anguish. Jack stroked his head and rubbed comfortingly over his back, feeling a hundred scars and more that marked this man as _his._ Something swelled in his chest, both possessive and protective. "It's alright," he murmured to the half-broken man, "I understand why you did it. I understand." 

They stayed like that for a long time while Jamie cried himself out. Each time he was close to mastering himself, Jack would whisper a carefully chosen word in his ear and bring on a fresh onslaught. It wasn't good for him to keep this inside. Clearly, he had been suffering for some time, with no hand to guide him but that of a self-proclaimed witch. If this was the last chance Jack would ever get to touch him, he wanted to draw all the poison out.

At last, the other man went still. Jack leaned back and tried to catch his gaze, but he pushed himself away quite suddenly, standing and turning. He walked over to where his blood-stained pin still rested on the floor. Stooped to pick it up and righted his plaid with careful, deliberate movements. That done, he stared at the blank wall for a few moments. "Damn you, Randall," he said finally, "And damn me for what you've made of me."

Jack had risen and was shrugging into yet another clean shirt. When Jamie finally turned to face him again, he gave the man a collected smile. "You've a taste for revenge," he said coolly, "If you ever decide you want more, you know where to find me. Of course . . ." He allowed his eyes to drift up and down the man. "Next time, perhaps I'll win. You might like that, I think."

It was the mark of how disturbed Jamie was that he couldn't come up with a single retort. He collected his knives and left, slamming the door behind him.

In his wake, Jack collapsed on his bed and ran a reverent finger over the half-moon bruise on his shoulder, wondering what it would take to touch that skin one more time.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always welcome.


End file.
